I can work the others too. Mineral, metal, earth and sand and stone.
The gems with their cold clear light. The liquids that burn their hues
into your eyes till you see nothing else. I learned them all on the
island.

But the spices are my love.

I know their origins, and what their colors signify, and their
smells. I can call each by the true-name it was given at the first, when
earth split like skin and offered it up to the sky. Their heat runs in
my blood. From amchur to zafran, they bow to my command. At a whisper they yield up to me their hidden properties, their magic powers.

Yes, they all hold magic, even the everyday American spices you toss unthinking into your cooking pot.

You doubt? Ah. You have forgotten the old secrets your mother’s
mothers knew. Here is one of them again: Vanilla beans soaked soft in
goat’s milk and rubbed on the wristbone can guard against the evil eye.
And here another: A measure of pepper at the foot of the bed, shaped
into a crescent, cures you of nightmare.

But the spices of true power are from my birthland, land of ardent poetry, aquamarine feathers. Sunset skies brilliant as blood.

They are the ones I work with.

If you stand in the center of this room and turn slowly around, you
will be looking at every Indian spice that ever was—even the lost
ones—gathered here upon the shelves of my store.

I think I do not exaggerate when I say there is no other place in the world quite like this.